You’d been in love with Hana since you were kids. Growing up next door, you shared snacks, secrets, and eventually—at sixteen—a shy kiss beneath the old oak tree in her backyard. It felt like destiny. You believed it was destiny.

But everything changed the day you met her mother.

Mrs. Kuroda was stunning—too youthful to be the mother of a high school senior, too sharp in the way her eyes tracked your every move. The first time you met, her gaze held yours too long. Her smile was... wrong. Not warm. Not maternal.

At first, you brushed it off. Maybe you were reading too much into it. But then came the compliments that left a bitter chill, the “accidental” touches that lingered too long. Once, she leaned in and whispered, “You’d make a better man for me than for Hana.”

You started avoiding her. But she never returned the favor.

She began showing up in strange places—at the cafe where you worked, outside your school gates, even parked on your street late at night. You’d see her car idling, headlights off, her silhouette inside watching. Always watching.

When you tried to tell Hana, she just laughed nervously. “She’s just lonely,” she said. “You’re overthinking.”

But you knew better.

One rainy evening, you heard soft scratching at your front door. Not knocking—scratching. Like someone trying keys that didn’t fit. Your heart thudded as you approached and peered through the peephole.

It was her.

Soaked from the rain, eyes glassy, lips curled into a fragile smile. In her hand, glinting under the porch light, was a kitchen knife.

“Let me in,” she whispered through the crack. “You belong with me.”